The Falklands Intercept (11 page)

‘I am sure it will be good for your career. But back to Verney. Was he friendly?’

‘Yes.’ All of a sudden Dixwell’s long answers were monosyllabic.

‘If I wanted to ask Mr. Downes to confirm this story – he would?’

‘Or you could ask the embassy chauffeur who drove us back.’

‘Did you notice anything else about the dinner that was odd?’

Dixwell paused. ‘There was a bit of what you Brits call an “atmosphere”. Most of your top people were there and I know there have been tensions.’

‘What sort of tensions?’

‘Well, over Afghanistan and other stuff. You know the score Daniel. We don’t
actually
need you militarily as the good Donald Rumsfeld once put it. We can go it alone. But you give very good cover. If the Brits pulled out early then it would make it even more difficult for us.’

Jacot said, ‘Hang on. Our top general, who’s in and out of Downing Street every day, has a map of Afghanistan above his desk in the ministry. And I understand his apartment in Kensington Palace is a kind of shrine to the country. He’s a what we used to call in the days of Empire a Sepoy general through and through. We are unlikely to leave before the
agreed time. And Verney, for all his faults, has always been a strong supporter of our intervention in Afghanistan. Maybe he had been getting cold feet recently but he’s not in a position to call the whole thing off.’

Dixwell looked out of the window again. ‘Yeah, you are probably right. But our people in Washington worry. And guess what Daniel? I believe in a higher power that controls our lives. It’s not called God but Washington. Anyway, who is going to step into Verney’s shoes?’

Jacot knew perfectly well but wasn’t going to say. ‘I am sure it will be announced in due course and that it will be someone sympathetic, as ever, to American concerns. Listen, it has been very good of you to see me. Don’t worry, I will find my way to the lobby.’

‘No way, Daniel. A Marine has to take you down. This may be London but this is the US Embassy.’

Jacot nodded and within seconds a smart young US Marine corporal entered the room and saluted. They strode down the corridor together like extras in
West Wing.

As he walked down the steps at the front of the embassy and past the statue of Eisenhower he looked back at the great gold American eagle that hovered over the embassy façade. It looked magnificent in the soft evening sunshine. Jacot walked to the other side of the square to the memorial to the victims of the terrorist atrocities of 911 to pay his quiet respects. The entire Western World still lived in the baleful shadow of that day. He remembered his small part in it. The Cabinet Office had been due to have a tele-conference with colleagues at Langley. He couldn’t even remember what it had meant to be about. They had settled into their seats in COBRA and waited for the satellite
connection
. But no one from Langley had appeared on the screens – just buzzing and a blank green screen. And then Jacot remembered the sound of running. Something he had never heard before in Downing Street. “Never run it panics the men”, he had been told on joining his regiment. He knew immediately that there must be something terribly wrong. As the tragic drama of the day unfolded he worried about American colleagues in Washington and New York who may or may not have survived the day. The public only discovered later but the intelligence world knew all along that the CIA’s huge New York office was in the World Trade Centre.

In the days that followed, Jacot and his British colleagues did what they could to show solidarity with the members of Grosvenor. Jacot took his opposite number to watch the Changing of the Guard the next day when the bands, on the direct orders of the Queen, had played the American national anthem. It was a moving moment for both of them. They had stood side by side and worked hard in what had seemed the common cause of humanity and freedom. They had drunk a lot together in various spots around London.

When the Americans had a crackdown on expenses the Brits picked up the bill. And when the Cabinet Office was having one of its periodic fits of austerity there was always the prospect of the CIA’s monthly lunches at Rules in Maiden Lane off Covent Garden
to sustain morale. The CIA were a broad minded bunch with huge experience but most of them could never quite get over the idea of silver tankards filled with Black Velvet. Mixing golden bubbly champagne with black stout to the American mind seemed
outrageous
. But they drank it well and good times were had. There seemed to be a trust between the two countries. The Brits went the extra mile to help the Americans. The CIA reciprocated, releasing information and judgments to their allies that would get them into trouble with Washington. And yet. And yet. As Jacot stood in front of the memorial deep in meditation he knew that in the matter of the death of general Sir Christopher Verney, Chief of the UK’s Defence Intelligence, the head of Grosvenor, the CIA’s London Station, was not giving him the whole picture. What was it he was concealing behind those intimate details of the White House, lovingly retold, but designed to dazzle and
distract
?

Jacot walked from the Cabinet office to the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service at Vauxhall Cross on the south bank of the Thames. It was an unattractive
building
originally built to house commercial offices but bought by the government to house its foreign secret intelligence service. It was a funny decision – better to have left them in anonymous offices dotted over London than house them all in one very obvious
building
. But maybe that was Jacot’s military sensibility intervening – soldiers liked to keep things split up and hidden until the critical moment. It was really none of his business but none of his colleagues who worked there thought the building suitable. They had a variety of uncomplimentary nicknames for the place. Legoland was the most used, but Babylon-on-Thames was the most accurate in Jacot’s view. With its ziggurat like shape and weird architectural detailing it could easily have been designed by one of Saddam Hussein’s kitschier in-house architects.

Jacot had been invited a few years previously to a preview of the latest James Bond film held for the staff of SIS at an anonymous cinema in north London. It was a formal and elegant occasion with drinks and small eats available. Just before the lights went down “C”, the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, and the six directors of the
principal
departments took their seats in the front row, accompanied by some senior movie executives and actors from the film. Everyone craned their necks to see if Dame Judy Dench, “M” in the latest films, was going to be sitting next to her real life counterpart “C”. SIS were very proud of their good taste and good manners. It was a gala occasion. Jacot had been hugely flattered to be invited. One of the pleasures of working in the intelligence world was that you were in-the-know even if you could not tell anyone. It was a huge treat to see the latest Bond film weeks before anyone else and in the company of Bond’s present-day successors. The atmosphere had been slightly spoiled at the start of the film when as the SIS building was blown sky high on screen a huge cheer went up from the cheap seats. “C” himself failed to see the joke and left at the end with a face like thunder, his aides trailing nervously behind.

It was “C”, Sir Valentine Walton, Jacot had come to speak to. As it was a formal visit Jacot was in uniform. Khaki service dress, highly polished Sam Browne belt and the dark blue ‘forage cap’ of his regiment, the Celtic Guards, with its cap badge of a gold
embroidered
Celtic cross. In his gloved hands Jacot also carried a thin highly-polished leather cane.

He passed swiftly through security and was ushered into “C’s” private lift which
ascended with slightly uncomfortable speed to the fifth floor. He expected to wait a few minutes in the small anteroom dominated by a good copy of Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen and a rather obsequious and over-tailored male private secretary. But the door opened within seconds and the impressive figure of Sir Valentine Walton KCMG, OBE, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, came out of it. Jacot only got halfway through a smart and guardsman-like salute before being grabbed by the arm and guided towards a chair by the side of a large and highly polished partner’s desk on which there appeared to be a large decanter of sherry.

‘Well, Colonel let’s get down to business’, said Valentine taking a large glug of sherry. ‘General Verney. Can’t say he was quite my cup of tea. Very sorry he has come to a sudden end and all that.’

The
mis en scene
was impressive. It was a glorious office with a great view of the Thames. The glass in the windows allowed you to appreciate the view, but as a result of the compounds in it that deflected both light and radio waves it had a metallic hue that reinforced the aura of secrecy and security. It was as if the whole building was wearing rather cheap dark glasses. Walton was at the same time paying coded homage to his boss Lady Nevinson – you are her emissary and I will treat you well – and trying subtly to overawe Jacot with his own status as head of SIS. Fair enough, thought Jacot. Whatever the realities of the UK’s faded position in the world SIS, as a result of the connection with Bond, remained one of the world’s premier and most powerful brands.

‘Are you aware of any reason why Verney may have been disposed of – if I can put it like that?’ asked Jacot, taking a large sip of sherry – an impressively dry Fino.

‘That, I think, is one for the police. As you know we had a problem ourselves a couple of years back with an unexplained sudden death just across the river from here. Very Agatha Christie. The jury is still out on that one. The poor man was discovered zipped up in a hold-all if you remember. He had been working in an area of interest to the Russian Mafia. So there was reason to be in a frightful flap. Verney’s I understand was a sudden death behind a locked door but not otherwise suspicious in any way. The
toxicology
tests show nothing and his rooms were checked thoroughly for radiation.’

The interview lasted half an hour. Walton went into some detail about the projects Verney had been involved with that might have put him at more risk than usual. Jacot questioned him in some detail about Verney’s involvement in planning for any
pre-emptive
action in Iran should the country get even closer to manufacturing a nuclear weapon. Walton was most forthcoming. Verney had recently travelled to Cyprus to inspect the intelligence facilities on the island. The listening stations on the island would play a crucial part in building an intelligence picture of what the Iranians were up to. Jacot pressed the issue – no it didn’t seem that Verney had much confidence in a pre-emptive strike against Tehran. And yes relations with some of the allies had become a little strained. While Verney had been in Washington a few weeks before a senior US official had insisted on referring to The Falkland Islands as the Malvinas – repeatedly
throughout
the meeting. Verney, unusually for such a thick-skinned man with a great admiration for the US system, had taken grave offence.

There were a number of the details about allied plans for Iran that Jacot found
astonishing
. In the press and on television the Western allies were often portrayed as relying on the brute force of air power. In reality they were capable of great subtlety and guile. A number of famous spies had become novelists, but none as far as Jacot could
remember
had been members of the Magic Circle. Shame. Their tricks were impressive. Valentine was less forthcoming about Verney’s tensions with the Americans.

Jacot thanked Walton and left the office. Thankfully the lift descended at a more leisurely speed. As he walked along Albert Embankment he ran the conversation back through his mind. It was always difficult dealing with SIS personnel. Their principal
training
was not, as the James Bond films would have us believe, in pistol shooting, scuba diving or flying Q’s latest pocket-sized helicopters, but in psychological manipulation and concealment. They wanted information from other people and to protect what they gleaned from prying eyes. They were good at it too. The training started from day one with young recruits sent out into town centres across the country to collect personal details on casual acquaintances and passers by. Jacot was used to it and military
intelligence
also had the habit of extreme discretion. In areas Walton did not want Jacot or Lady Nevinson peering into had he had parried, evaded and avoided like the master he was. In other areas he had perhaps been too free with the information. He had no choice but to speak to Jacot – Lady Nevinson controlled his service’s budget.

Ultimately, Jacot had not been re-assured by his meeting with “C”. Walton had been most forthcoming about plans for Iran. In fact he had told Jacot too much. Perhaps he was meant to be impressed. But other than a throwaway remark about Verney’s
annoyance
at American rudeness while in Washington, Walton had given little else away.

Jacot stood by the tall windows of his first floor flat in Marylebone, looking out at the square in the twilight. The square gardens were ordered and attractive. The residents' association who owned the square had insisted that it should look like what it was – an English Georgian square; one of those unspoilt and glorious remnants that lined the West End just north of Oxford Street. The English inhabitants were actually in a
minority
. There were American and European bankers, diplomats of various types and a number of young families from various parts of the Middle East – Jews, Muslims and Christians. The residents' meetings could be disputatious and difficult but only in a gentle way. All were agreed on one thing: the square was a beautiful and private amenity and that it should remain true to its roots. Jacot still smiled at the thought of the very senior Australian television presenter who suggested at a meeting that a dying oak tree should be replaced by a eucalyptus. The wife of an Arab ambassador went pink with horror under her headscarf.

‘In Sydney, yes. But not in London.'

The gardens looked more pleasing than ever. After six weeks of digging and
construction
the garden was enclosed for the first time since 1940 with a black painted wrought iron fence. It looked magnificent and well worth every penny the inhabitants had contributed or raised. Every resident of the square had done something and the nearby embassies had been generous, but nearly half the necessary money came as a
personal
contribution from a foreign banker who lived in one of the few remaining
undivided
houses. The original fence and gates had been removed just before the Battle of Britain as part of a national campaign to gather scrap metal for the war effort. “Weapons from scrap metal – all boys can help” ran a poster put up in schools. Aluminium pots and pans could be melted down to make urgently needed aircraft parts. But wrought iron had no modern military uses. Ironically it wasn't just the Luftwaffe who wanted to destroy and despoil. The great national, even global, emergency of 1940 needed nerves and sacrifice by many people but somewhere in the government machinery there were officials who wanted to disfigure London's beautiful squares, at a time when preservation should have been a priority. Who knows what the motivation was – probably the usual British vice, chippiness, but on this occasion dressed up in the more respectable clothes of
patriotism
.

Jacot was jolted from his resentful melancholy by the appearance of Monica at the front door below. He pressed the buzzer to let her in. She walked into the large mirrored
hall and then up the stairs. Jacot was at his own door to let her in. They shook hands and he ushered her into his sitting room and presented her with a glass of ice cold Manzanilla which she took gratefully.

He looked pleased to see her.

‘I thought we should go to my favourite Italian. Just round the corner. This part of London has really come up in the world since I first came to live here in the mid-
eighties
.'

‘Italian sounds great.' She sipped her sherry. She was pleased to see him as well. The flat was impressive with high ceilings and full-length windows looking over the square. It was plainly decorated in white with beige carpets – the English fashion as she was quickly learning. A large mirror over the fireplace dominated the room. On either side were two oil paintings with picture lights above. On the left was a portrait of Jacot in his
ceremonial
uniform. The scarlet of the tunic and the gold and silver of the medals, buttons and accoutrements glittered in the light of a small chandelier. The detail in the portrait was extraordinarily lifelike. The fur of the bearskin so truthfully rendered that she was tempted to stroke it.

Jacot saw her looking at the portrait. ‘It's for my mother really.'

Monica laughed. ‘I don't believe you. Anyway it's lovely and lifelike. It makes the room.' She looked around. On the right hand side of the fireplace was another portrait. No scarlet in this one, instead the khaki service dress of a British Great War officer sitting at a desk in a dugout – lit by candles stuck in empty wine bottles. The expression on the face of the moustachioed officer was wistful, as if his mind was far away from the horrors of war. On the back wall of the dugout appeared to be pictures of Can Can girls torn from magazines – a splash of colour in a drab setting. The way the artist had painted the various candles round the dugout suggested the lighting in an orchestra pit. Perhaps the officer was looking forward to his next leave – the pleasures of a show in London and a good dinner or just being above ground for a few days and away from the mud and the danger. It was a powerful painting and Monica moved towards it for a closer look. She saw the signature and turned to Jacot.

‘It is a beautiful painting. It's not Lady Nevinson I assume.'

Jacot smiled. ‘It's not by her but a man called CRW Nevinson who was an official artist in the First World War. He painted French soldiers as well.' The telephone rang in the next room. ‘Hang on, I'll be back in a moment.'

Monica sipped her sherry and looked at the bookshelves on the back wall of the room. You could tell a lot about a man from his bookshelves and she was under
instructions
to get to know Jacot well. Row after row of beautifully bound books in green leather with gold lettering. She had been briefed in Paris on the likely tastes of this type of Englishman. Lots of Second World War military history and books about Rugby Football and Winston Churchill was what the briefers had said. She looked at the titles and was puzzled. Most of the military history appeared to be about the First rather than
the Second World War. And much of it seemed to be about the French, German and Austro-Hungarian armies, most of it in the original French and German editions. It was unusual to see in an English house the sixteen volumes of the
Histoire Illustree de la Guerre de 1914
and she was pleasantly astonished to see Marshal Petain's
Verdun
– the definitive account whatever the world thought about his later activities. At the end of the shelves on the Great War were editions of the English poets who found their voice and their muse at the front but also a collected edition of Anton Schnak – the German Army's Wilfred Owen.

There seemed to be nothing at all about the Second World War except Von Manstein's selectively amnesiac memoirs and a superbly bound over-sized edition of
Catch 22
. France featured again with a number of volumes about Dien Ben Phu and Algeria. She smiled. No Rugby Football at all. It was not what she was expecting. But she did notice a shelf of books by and about Churchill. The briefers had said that Jacot had been to the same school. He was not an intelligence target as such but she had been briefed in some detail about his background and experiences in life. It was clear that Navarre and other senior officials in the French Intelligence Services were determined to have the closest possible relationship with the British. No ifs, no buts and certainly no “Anglophobie”, was how Navarre had put it.

He came back into the room. ‘Sorry about that. Let's go.'

They finished their sherry and left for the restaurant in a small street tucked away behind the huge Roman Catholic church of St James', Spanish Place. She pleaded
ignorance
and let him choose from the menu. Jacot seemed well known there. The food was superb. Mozzarella, tomato and avocado salad was followed by penne with a Puttanesca sauce. The strong black olives and anchovies appealed very much to her southern Mediterranean taste. They shared a bottle of an ice cold, light but alcoholic white wine from Sicily, according to Jacot, and finished with fresh figs and coffee. They were meant to be talking business. Instead they just got to know each other. They made a handsome couple in the restaurant. She, in particular, drew admiring glances from both the waiters and most of the other male diners and as she noticed from Jacot himself. Like all
intelligence
agents she had been trained in understanding body language, particularly in men.

Englishmen were more difficult to read perhaps but the signs were there. Initially, Jacot sat upright. He was polite and attentive but in a way you would expect at a
professional
meeting. As the wine and intimate atmosphere took effect she sensed Jacot leaning a fraction closer across the table. Instead of looking down or away after making a remark he held her gaze. His gloved hands, hidden under the table unless in the process of eating or pouring wine, relaxed and rested on the crisp white table cloth. They discussed her recent experiences as an undercover agent in one of Paris' most dingy and most hostile suburbs.

Playing the part of a widowed Algerian cleaning woman had been demanding – the work had been hard. She washed not very frequently and wore dirty and baggy clothes.
As a widow she had little status and was generally ignored by both men and women. But cleaning ladies have access. Many of the people she worked for were Islamist militants of one sort or another, always looking over their shoulders in case the authorities were onto them. Hyper-aware in many ways. They did not notice women except as items of
property
or objects of their own or other people's lust. There had been a lionization of some Islamist terrorists in the media over the years. They had the capacity to cause chaos in a modern democracy for sure. But warriors they were not. Not in their private lives at least, and she had seen them close up. Bullies most of them, and what passed for their
passionately
held beliefs were usually a set of brutal and self-satisfied prejudices. It had been a difficult and frightening time for her and it was good to go through it with someone who would understand, to have a kind of elegant decompression, with an Englishman of all people. Towards the end of her account she noticed Jacot started to make quips and comments in an effort to lighten the conversation. Her grim story had been told and it was time to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, exactly the right tone to adopt in the
circumstances
. She felt that he understood.

‘You know Daniel, I was taught at spy school that the British routinely talked up the capabilities of the IRA so that they could look like a worthy enemy rather than the gang of dysfunctional thugs they really were. And to disguise your own unwillingness to take them on con brio.'

‘You are probably right. They weren't that good. The average IQ was low and their personal habits let the side down a bit. I always thought of them as similar to murderous football supporters. But they could be effective. You saw the steel door to my flat. And my bathroom functions as a safe room. I can lock myself in there and probably survive a direct hit. All thanks to a run in I had with the IRA as a soldier in Northern Ireland. There are a few of them still around.'

‘I wasn't just having a go at the British.' She laughed. ‘I think we do the same with Islamists. Most of the ones I saw in Paris were stupid and brutal.'

‘Well I think you have a point, Monica. The threat is there but it is difficult for us to gauge it properly because of what happened on 911. We all assumed it was the opening overture and by the time they got to Act Five the world would be left a smoking, toxic, radioactive wreck. But the more I look at what happened that day it looks as though our enemies were at the limits of what they could pull off. Everything pretty much went their way on the day. And just about everything that could go wrong for Uncle Sam did go wrong. The US Air Force was unlucky not to shoot down the second plane into the twin towers to be frank. And the whole thing wasn't helped by the shoddy construction of the towers that allowed such a quick collapse. I doubt if the Empire State Building would have fallen apart quite like that. Chunks of it would have been missing and hundreds would have died in the fires but the butcher's bill would have been lower.'

‘Where were you on the day?'

‘In COBRA – the UK's crisis management organisation. I ran back from lunch when
I heard and did not emerge like everyone else for several days. Like Asterix and Obelix, we thought the sky was going to fall on our heads. But it didn't and despite 7-7 it hasn't since. The more I look at that day the more it reminds me of that long jumper, Bob Beamon I think he was called, who made that freak long jump at the Mexico Olympics in 1968. He jumped so far that the officials' tape measure wouldn't reach to measure it.'

‘I see what you mean', said Monica. ‘I have an early start in the morning but am dying for a glass of brandy. You have mentioned Mozart a number of times tonight. Play me some.'

‘Shall we go back for a nightcap?'

They walked slowly back towards Jacot's flat, not arm in arm but very close to each other. At the corner of George Street and Montagu Square they stopped to cross the road. They were the only people waiting to cross. It was busy at this time of night with many fast-moving cars zipping by. Jacot pressed the button on the pelican crossing. The little green man came on and the bleeping began. Jacot looked both ways – noticed a black Mercedes twenty feet to his right which had plenty of time to slow down – and stepped into the road with Monica at his side.

The horn and screeching of brakes made him realise that all was not as it should be. Time went into its slow motion mode. It always does if you are about to be shot, bombed or run over. Slow motion is not a gimmick invented by film directors. That's how it happens for real. Pulling Monica with him he jumped for the pavement. They both ended up in a winded heap. He could feel the hot air from the brakes of the Mercedes as it
slithered
by stopping in the centre of the crossing. As he twisted round he could see that the traffic light and the pedestrian light were both green – just for a split second. And then they went back to normal.